Ramsay 04 - Killjoy (19 page)

‘Perhaps it was a present from some other relative,’ Hunter said. ‘Someone on her mother’s side. And she didn’t tell her gran in case she expected a cut.’

‘Yes, perhaps.’ But it was unlikely, Ramsay thought, that her mother’s family would get in touch after all this time. They would have to be traced just the same. Through the Spanish police.

Hunter emptied his glass and set it on the window sill, hoping that Ramsay would offer a refill but the inspector seemed lost in his own thoughts and did not notice.

‘I still think the boy’s hiding something,’ the sergeant said at last.

‘John Powell?’

He nodded.

‘I hope he’s not involved,’ Ramsay said, ‘for Evan’s sake. It would be very difficult, very unpleasant. He was there of course last night in Martin’s Dene at the Holly Tree but he was with his family all the time. I checked with Evan today. And the timing’s all wrong. They didn’t arrive at the restaurant until nine. Amelia Wood left court before five and told the usher she was going straight home. Allowing for the drive, a shower, tea, she would have been out on the hill by six thirty at the latest. We haven’t had a time of death from the pathologist yet but I’d be surprised if it was much later than that.’

‘He could have killed her beforehand then,’ Hunter said stubbornly. ‘According to his statement he arrived home at seven. He left me at the school in the early afternoon. He’d have had plenty of time to get to Martin’s Dene.’

‘But not to get home after committing the murder,’ Ramsay said. ‘He doesn’t have a car and it would be pushing it on foot or using public transport. Besides, what motive could he have?’

Hunter shrugged. ‘As I see it,’ he said. ‘None of them have got a motive.’ He looked wistfully at his empty glass. This time Ramsay took the hint and poured him a drink.

‘I was with Lynch between five thirty and six,’ Hunter said. ‘His car’s still with forensic so he’d hardly be able to make it to Martin’s Dene in time to kill Mrs Wood. Unless he had an accomplice who drove him and that’s not very likely.’

‘No,’ Ramsay said. ‘Perhaps not. But I don’t think we can rule anyone out at this stage.’

He stood up and moved restlessly to the window. The cold penetrated the glass and he shivered.

‘You’re quite right,’ he said, ‘about our lacking a motive. I’m certain that the killings weren’t random or opportunistic. As you said it’s all too complicated and well planned for that. We need a motive that connects the two women. The only link we have at the moment is the Grace Darling Centre so we should start there.’ He paused. ‘ I was interested in something Dennis Wood said. About Lynch. Apparently Wood developed the flats at Chandler’s Court. He told me that when Lynch was first interested in buying a flat he had difficulty getting together the finance. Then, miraculously, he found the money. I’d like to know where it came from. He won’t be making much as director of the Arts Centre. The local authority’s not known for its generosity.’

‘He must have had savings,’ Hunter said, ‘ after all that time on the telly.’ He thought Ramsay was clutching at straws.

‘Perhaps,’ Ramsay said. ‘All the same it might be worth looking into. Check tomorrow with one of those credit agencies. See if he had any debts.’

‘What else?’ Hunter asked. He preferred to be out, knocking on doors, making things happen.

‘It occurred to me that Mrs Wood must have made enemies during her time on the bench. She was notorious for her controversial judgements. There’s a record that her car was vandalized after one unpopular decision. Look into all the cases she’d dealt with in the last few months. See if there’s anything that connects with Gabriella Paston.’

‘All right.’ Hunter was unenthusiastic. It was the sort of work he hated, sitting in an office with a pile of paperwork and a telephone. ‘What will you be doing?’

‘Me?’ Ramsay said. ‘I’ll be tracing a lad called Gary Barrass.’

It did not take Ramsay long the next morning to find out about Barrass, the boy he’d met at the Pastons’ on the day after Gabriella’s death. The lad already had a string of convictions which ranged from shoplifting to carrying an offensive weapon. He was described in reports as ‘easily led’. His most recent charge for burglary had resulted in a six-month sentence at Castington Young Offenders’ Institution. At first Ramsay thought that Barrass might provide the link he was looking for between Amelia Wood and the Pastons, but with all his criminal experience he was still a juvenile and Mrs Wood had never sat on the juvenile bench.

The police file gave Gary’s address as 53 Windward Avenue, the Starling Farm estate. The whole country had seen Windward Avenue on their television screens in the previous weeks. At one end was the small row of shops which had been the target for looting. It had formed the front line between angry teenagers and the police who had tried to stop their joy riding. Later, politicians, churchmen, and reporters had stood on the pavement to hold forth on the causes of the disturbances.

When Ramsay stood on the same pavement he saw that there had been no improvement to the street since the riots had headed the news. He had parked outside the launderette and wondered, without anxiety, if the car would still be there on his return. Two houses at the end of the avenue still had blackened paintwork and crumbling walls. Bright yellow signs nailed to the wall warned that the buildings were unsafe but otherwise it seemed that no steps had been taken to begin repairs. Ramsay saw that it would not be easy to find number fifty-three. The boards used to cover the doors on the empty houses had been used before and were scrawled all over by painted numbers. Many occupied houses had no numbers at all. Was it a deliberate ploy, Ramsay wondered, to confuse the police? There was no one to ask for directions, no sign of life at all except a pit-bull terrier which barked as he walked past, chained to a rusting car.

Then he came to number thirty-seven, which must have been bought by the tenants when the council’s right to buy scheme was first introduced. The house had mock-mullioned windows and a stone-clad exterior. There was a Georgian-style door and a lightly polished brass number plate. The effect was ridiculous but Ramsay could not help but admire the determination which sent someone out every day to polish the brass.

From there he could count the houses until he reached fifty-three. He stood on the pavement for a moment to check that he’d found the right place. It was hard to believe at first that the house was lived in. There were no curtains at the window and in the garden there was a pile of rubbish—a rabbit hutch with a wire-mesh door, an ancient mattress, and a rotting roll of carpet. But as he walked up to the door he saw through the window a Christmas tree made of silver tinsel, hung with baubles and paper chains, and heard a Metro Radio disc jockey announcing the next record then a woman’s voice, singing along with it. He knocked at the door.

The woman who opened it was wearing a threadbare pink dressing-gown, so thin in places that it was almost transparent. She clutched it around her with nicotine-stained fingers. As she opened the door the noise of the radio was suddenly louder and she had to shout over it. She was still swaying to the rhythm of the music.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

‘Is Mr Barrass at home?’ he asked.

‘Him!’ she said. ‘He left five years ago. I’ve not seen him since.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘ It’s Gary I wanted to see. I’m from Northumbria Police.’

‘Just a minute,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll turn that off.’ And she shimmied reluctantly down the hall to the kitchen, her hips swaying, enjoying the music while she could. There was a sudden silence.

‘What’s he been up to now?’ she said, resigned.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Not so far as I know. It’s information I’m after. I think he can help me. That’s all.’

‘He’s still in his bed,’ she said. ‘Bairns today, they’ve nothing to get up for, have they? Stay there and I’ll rouse him.’ She left Ramsay standing in the hall and disappeared up the stairs. He could see through to a kitchen where a box of breakfast cereal and a pile of dirty bowls stood on a table. Presumably there were younger children who had already taken themselves off to school.

The boy came down on his own, stretching and only half awake. He wore black Wrangler jeans and Reebok trainers. His mother hadn’t bought
them
, Ramsay thought, from her Income Support. The boy led him through into the room with the Christmas tree and motioned uneasily for him to sit down. There was a leatherette suite and a television set and video recorder. In a corner a budgerigar in a cage on a stand scratched at a piece of millet. The walls were covered with orange gloss paint. Gary Barrass perched on the window ledge and stared out at the street.

I should have sent Hunter to talk to him, Ramsay thought suddenly. He would have shouted and bullied and got what he wanted immediately. He felt his own pity for the boy getting in the way.

‘I need to talk to you, Gary,’ he said. ‘It’s important.’

‘It’s no good asking me,’ the boy said. ‘I wasn’t there.’

‘Perhaps you should explain,’ Ramsay said evenly.

‘I wasn’t at the races last night. I can’t help you.’

There had been reports of joy riders tearing round the estate, Ramsay knew, and complaints from respectable residents because the police could do nothing to stop it. But the joy riding was a regular event. Gary had seen him with the Pastons and must have connected him with Gabriella’s murder. They’d be talking about little else on the estate. Was he too stupid or too sly to admit the connection?

‘I’m not here about the racing,’ Ramsay said. ‘It’s more serious than that. I’m investigating Gabriella Paston’s murder. Did you know her?’

The boy turned to face him. The corner of an eye twitched with tension.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We were at school together. She was two years older than me.’

He was sixteen. From his appearance Ramsay would have guessed he was three years younger.

‘You heard what happened to her?’

Gary nodded and Ramsay saw that he was dumb through terror not insolence. Yet he must have been interviewed by the police dozens of times. What was different on this occasion to make him so frightened?

‘When did you last see her?’ Ramsay asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Gary muttered. ‘ Not for ages. Not since before I got sent down. She’d left the Starling Farm before I went to Castington.’

‘Do you know why she left?’

‘No!’ the boy cried. ‘What are you asking me for? I don’t know anything.’

‘Yet you seemed very friendly with the Pastons,’ Ramsay said quietly. ‘With Alma and Ellen. I understood you were a regular visitor. Didn’t they say anything about it? Didn’t you ever talk about Gabby?’

‘No!’ he said, looking about him wildly. ‘They wouldn’t talk to me.’ He was like a backward child facing accusations he did not quite understand. He began desperately to bite the fingernails of his left hand.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Ramsay said. He had allowed his impatience to turn to anger, thinking that it might be a reaction the boy would understand. ‘I’m not playing games. We’re talking about murder.’ Then, when Gary continued to stare dumbly into the street he added sharply: ‘Let’s get your mam in here. Perhaps she’ll help you see sense.’ He raised his voice still further. ‘Mrs Barrass. Could you come here, please? We need your help.’

She had changed into a pink track suit which was a size too small and stretched across her stomach and breast. Her hands were soapy with washing-up liquid. She stood just inside the door, eager, optimistic, hoping this time it was true Gary had done nothing wrong. She had tried to keep her son out of trouble, always tried to think the best of him, but the pressures of the estate had been too much for her.

‘I’m trying to explain to Gary that he should tell me all he knows,’ Ramsay said.

She wanted to help him, he was sure of that. He thought she was a good woman, law abiding, honest.

‘H’ way man Gary, tell the man what he wants to know,’ she said. ‘Those friends of yours’d do nothing to save you.’

‘I’m interested in the Paston household,’ Ramsay said. ‘Do you know what Gary was doing there?’

Her reaction changed abruptly and he saw a panic which mirrored the expression he had seen on the face of her son.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything about what goes on in that place.’

‘You’re not friendly with the Pastons, then?’

She turned away as if the question were not worth answering. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep him in. Make sure he stays away from them.’

‘Why?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said firmly. ‘ I keep myself to myself.’ She was jolly, good natured. He did not believe her. She’d look forward to a night out with the girls, a few drinks, a bit of a chat.

‘Look,’ he said, more persuasively. ‘I don’t need evidence, facts. Not now. There must be talk on the estate about Gabby Paston, about why she left, about her murder. You must have heard rumours about Alma and Ellen Paston.’

‘No,’ she said, as stubborn as her son. ‘I know nothing.’

‘But you do
know
them.’ But she would tell him nothing more. She stood her ground with a nervous dignity that he could only admire. It was her house, she said, and if he didn’t mind they had things to do, her and Gary. She would like him to go.

‘I want to help,’ he said, as he stood at the door, preparing to leave. ‘I’m not here to cause trouble.’

‘Maybe not,’ she said more sadly. ‘ But there’s no bugger can help us.’

Then she smiled at him hoping there were no hard feelings between them.

In Hallowgate police station Ramsay sought out Evan Powell.

‘You know the Starling Farm,’ he said. ‘What’s your opinion of the Paston women?’

‘They’re mad as hatters,’ Powell said. ‘The pair of them.’

‘In what way?’

‘When Robbie Paston died they took it personally. Thought it was my fault. Thought for some reason that I’d meant to do it. Ellen threw a fit at the inquest and accused me of murder. They started sending hate mail. It came here first. Then they must have found out where I lived because it arrived at my home. Nothing subtle, mind. Always the same writing on the same sort of envelopes and in the end I threw the letters away without opening them.’